Feast Day: Saints. Julian and Basilissa, martyrs, 313.
St. Peter of Sebaste, bishop and confessor, about 387. St. Marchiana,
virgin and martyr, about 305. St. Vaneng, confessor,
about 688. St. Fillan, abbot, 7th century. St. Adrian,
abbot at Canterbury, 710. St. Brithwald, archbishop of
Canterbury, 731.

ST. FILLAN

St. Fillan is famous among the Scottish saints, from his piety
and good works. He spent a considerable part of his
holy life at a monastery which he built in Pittenweem,
of which some remains of the later buildings yet exist
in a habitable condition. It is stated that, while
engaged here in transcribing the Scriptures, his left
hand sent forth. sufficient light to enable him, at
night, to continue his work without a lamp. For the
sake of seclusion, he finally retired to a wild and
lonely vale, called from him Strathfillan, in
Perthshire, where he died, and where his name is still
attached to the ruins of a chapel, to a pool, and a
bed of rock.

'At Strathfillan, there is a deep pool, called the
Holy Pool, where, in olden times, they were wont to
dip insane people. The ceremony was performed after
sunset on the first day of the quarter, O.S., and
before sunrise next morning. The dipped persons were
instructed to take three stones from the bottom of the
pool, and, walking three times round each of three
cairns on the bank, throw a stone into each. They were
next conveyed to the ruins of St. Fillan's chapel; and
in a corner called St. Fillan's bed, they were laid on
their back, and left tied all night. If next morning
they were found loose, the cure was deemed perfect,
and thanks returned to the saint. The pool is still
(1843) visited, not by parishioners, for they have no
faith in its virtue, but by people from other and
distant places.'—New Statistical Account of
Scotland, parish of Killin, 1843.

Strange as it may appear, the ancient bell of the
chapel, believed to have been St. Fillan's bell, of a
very antique form, continued till the beginning of the
nineteenth century to lie loose on a grave-stone in
the churchyard, ready to be used, as it occasionally
was, in the ceremonial for the cure of lunatics. The
popular belief was, that it was needless to attempt to
appropriate and carry it away, as it was sure, by some
mysterious means, to return. A curious and covetous
English traveller at length put the belief to the
test, and the bell has been no more heard of. The head
of St. Fillan's crosier, called the Quigrich, of
silver gilt, elegantly carved, and with a jewel in
front, remained at Killin, in the possession of a
peasant's family, by the representative of which it
was conveyed some years ago to Canada, where it still
exists. The story is that this family obtained
possession of the Quigrich from King Robert Bruce,
after the battle of Bannockburn,
on his becoming offended with the abbot of Inchaffray,
its previous keeper; and there is certainly a document
proving its having been in their possession in the
year 1487.

A relic of St. Hector figures in
Hector Bocce's account of
the battle just alluded to. 'King Robert,' says he,
'took little rest the night before the battle, having
great care in his mind for the surety of his army, one
while revolving in his consideration this chance, and
another while that: yea, and sometimes he fell to
devout contemplation, making his prayer to God and St.
Fillan, whose arm, as it was set and enclosed in a
silver case, he supposed had been the same time within
his tent, trusting the better fortune to follow by the
presence thereof. As he was thus making his prayers,
the case suddenly opened and clapped to again. The
king's chaplain being present, astonished therewith,
went to the altar where the case stood, and finding
the arm within it, he cried to the king and others
that were present, how there was a great miracle
wrought, confessing that he brought the empty case to
the field, and left the arm at home, lest that relic
should have been lost in the field, if anything
chanced to the army otherwise than well. The king,
very joyful of this miracle, passed the remnant of the
night in prayer and thanksgiving.'

In the history of this great naval commander, we
have a remarkable instance of early difficulties
overcome by native hardihood and determination. The
son of a solicitor who was treasurer to Greenwich
Hospital, he received a good education, and was
designed for the law; but this was not to be his
course. To pursue an interesting recital given by
himself:

"My father's favourite plan was frustrated by his
own coachman, whose confidence I gained, always
sitting by his side on the coach-box when we drove
out. He often asked what profession I intended to
choose. I told him I was to be a lawyer. "Oh, don't
be a lawyer, Master Jackey," said the old man; "all
lawyers are rogues."

About this time young Strachan (father of the
late Admiral Sir Richard Strachan, and a son of Dr.
Strachan, who lived at Greenwich) came to the same
school, and we became great friends. He told me such
stories of the happiness of a sea life, into which
he had lately been initiated, that he easily
persuaded me to quit the school and go with him. We
set out accordingly, and concealed ourselves on
board of a ship at Woolwich. 'After three days'
absence, young Jervis returned home, and persisted
in not returning to school. 'This threw my mother
into much perplexity, and, in the absence of her
husband, she made known her grief, in a flood of
tears, to Lady Archibald Hamilton, mother of the
late Sir William Hamilton, and wife of the Governor
of Greenwich Hospital. Her ladyship said she did not
see the matter in the same light as my mother did,
that she thought the sea a very honourable and a
very good profession, and said she would undertake
to procure me a situation in some ship-of-war.

In the meantime my mother sent for her brother,
Mr. John Parker, who, on being made acquainted with
my determination, expostulated with me, but to no
purpose. I was resolved I would not be a lawyer, and
that I would be a sailor. Shortly afterwards Lady
Archibald Hamilton introduced me to Lady Burlington,
and she to Commodore Townshend,
who was at that time going out in the Gloucester, as
Commander-in-Chief, to Jamaica. She requested that
he would take me on his quarter-deck, to which the
commodore readily consented; and I was forthwith to
be prepared for a sea life.

My equipment was what would now be called rather
grotesque. My coat was made for me to grow up to; it
reached down to my heels, and was full large in the
sleeves; I had a dirk, and a gold-laced hat; and in
this costume my uncle caused me to be introduced to
my patroness, Lady Burlington. Here I acquitted
myself but badly. I lagged behind my uncle, and held
by the skirt of his coat. Her ladyship, however,
insisted on my coming forward, shook hands with me,
and told me I had chosen a very honourable
profession. She then gave Mr. Parker a note to
Commodore George Townshend, who lived in one of the
small houses in Charles Street, Berkeley Square,
desiring that we should call there early the next
morning. This we did; and after waiting some time,
the commodore made his appearance in his night-cap
and slippers, and in a very rough and uncouth voice
asked me how soon I would be ready to join my ship?
I replied, "Directly." "Then you may go tomorrow
morning," said he, " and I will give you a letter to
the first lien-tenant."

My uncle, Mr. Parker, however, replied that I
could not be ready quite so soon, and we quitted the
commodore. In a few days after this we set off, and
my uncle took me to Mr. Blanchard, the
master-attendant or the boatswain of the dockyard—I
forget which—and by him I was taken on board the
hulk or receiving-ship the next morning, the
Gloucester being in dock at the time. This was in
the year 1748.

As soon as the ship was ready for sea we
proceeded to Jamaica, and as I was always fond of an
active life, I voluntered to go into small vessels,
and saw a good deal of what was going on. My father
had a very large family, with limited means. He gave
me twenty pounds at starting, and that was all he
ever gave me. After I had been a consider-able time
at the station, I drew for twenty more, but the bill
came back protested. I was mortified at this rebuke,
and made a promise, which I have ever kept, that I
would never draw another bill, without a certainty
of its being paid. I immediately changed my mode of
living, quitted my mess, lived alone, and took up
the ship's allowance, which I found to be quite
sufficient; washed and mended my own clothes, made a
pair of trousers out of the ticking of my bed, and,
having by these means saved as much money as would
redeem my honour, I took up my bill; and from that
time to this ' (he said this with great energy) ' I
have taken care to keep within any means.'

Fontenelle stands out amongst writers for having
reached the extraordinary age of a hundred years. He
was probably to a great extent indebted for that
length of days to a calmness of nature which forbade
the machine to be subjected to any rough handling. It
was believed of him that he had never either truly
laughed or truly cried in the whole course of his
existence. His leading characteristic is conveyed in
somebody's excellent mot on hearing him say that he
flattered himself he had a good heart:

'Yes, my dear Fontenelle, as good a heart as can be
made out of brains.'

Better still in an anecdote which has got into
currency:

'One day, a certain bon-vivant
abbé came unexpectedly to dine with him. The abbé was
fond of asparagus dressed with butter; for which
Fontenelle also had a great goût, but preferred it
dressed with oil. Fontenelle said for such a friend
there was no sacrifice he would not make: the abbé
should have half the dish of asparagus he had ordered
for himself, and, more-over, it should be dressed
'with butter. While they were conversing thus
together, the poor abbé fell down in a fit of
apoplexy; upon which his friend Fontenelle instantly
scampered down stairs, and eagerly called out to his
cook: "The whole with oil! the whole with oil, as at
first!"

Fontenelle was born at Rouen, 11th February, 1657,
and was, by his mother's side, nephew of the great Corneille. He was bred to the law, which he gave up
for poetry, history, and philosophy. His poetical
pieces have, however, fallen into neglect and
oblivion. The Dialogues des Morts, published in
1683, first laid the foundation of his literary fame.
He was the first individual who wrote a treatise
expressly on the Plurality of Worlds. It was
published in 1686, the year before the publication of
Newton's Principia. and is entitled Conversations on
the Plurality of Worlds. It consists of five chapters,
with the following titles:

The Earth is a planet which turns round its own
axis and also round the sun.

The Moon is a habitable world.

Particulars concerning the world in the Moon,
and that the other planets are inhabited.

Particulars of the worlds of Venus, Mercury,
Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn.

The Fixed Stars are so many Suns, each of which
illuminates a world.

In another edition of the work published in 1719,
Fontenelle added a sixth chapter, entitled, 6. New
thoughts which confirm those in the preceding
conversations—the latest discoveries which have been
made in the heavens.

This singular work, written by a man of great
genius, and with a sufficient knowledge of astronomy,
excited a high degree of interest, both from the
nature of the subject, and the vivacity and humour
with which it is treated. The conversations are
carried on with the Marchioness of G---- with whom the
author is supposed to be residing. The lady is
distinguished by youth, beauty, and talent, and the
share which she takes in the dialogue is not less
interesting than the more scientific part assumed by
the philosopher.

The Plurality of Worlds (says Sir
David Brewster) was read
with unexampled avidity through every part of Europe.
It was translated into all the languages of the
Continent, and was honoured by annotations from the
pen of the celebrated astronomer Lalande; and of M.
Gottsched, one of its German editors. No fewer than
three English translations of it were published; and
one of these, we believe the first, had run through
six editions so early as the year 1737.

We have given this outline of Foutenelle's
celebrated work in consequence of the great attention
which its subject, the Plurality of Worlds, has
of late excited in scientific circles. One of the
leading controversialists has been the author of an
Essay on the Plurality of Worlds, who urges the
theological, not less than the scientific, reasons for
believing in the old tradition of a single world: 'I
do not pretend,' says this writer, 'to disprove the
plurality of worlds; but I ask in vain for any
argument which makes the doctrine probable.' ... 'It
is too remote from knowledge to be either proved or
disproved.' Sir David Brewster has replied in More
Worlds than One, emphatically maintaining that analogy
strongly countenances the idea of all the solar
planets, if not all worlds in the universe, being
peopled with creatures, not dissimilar in being and
nature to that of the inhabitants of the earth.

[Caroline] was one of those women who occasionally
come forth before the world, as in protest against the
commonly accepted ideas of men regarding the mental
capacity of the gentler sex. Of all scientific studies
one would suppose that of mathematics to be the most
repulsive to the female mind; yet what instances there
are of the contrary!

Jeanne Dumée, the widow who sought solace for her
desolate state in the study of the Copernican theory;
Marie Caunitz, who assisted her husband in making up
his Mathematical Tables; the Marquise de
Chatelet, the friend of Voltaire, Maupertuis, and
Bernouilli, who published in 1740 her Institution de
Physique, an exposition of the philosophy of
Leibnitz,
and who likewise translated the Principia of
Newton; Nicole de Lahière, who helped her husband
Lefante with a Treatise on the Lengths of Pendulums;
the Italian Agnosi, who wrote and debated on all
learned subjects, a perfect Admirable Crichton in
petticoats, and whose mathematical treatises yet
command admiration: finally, another fair Italian,
Maria Catarina Bassi, who was equally conversant with
classical and mathematical studies, and actually
attained the honours of a professor's chair in the
university of Bologna. Such examples are certainly
enough to prove that, whatever may be the ordinary or
average powers and tendencies of the female mind,
there is nothing in its organization absolutely to
forbid an occasional competency for the highest
subjects of thought.

Isaac Herschel and his wife use little thought,
when he was plying his vocation as a musician at
Hanover, what a world-wide reputation was in store for
their family. He taught them all music—four sons and a
daughter. The second son, William, came to England to
seek his fortune in 158; and when, after many
difficulties, he became organist at Bath, his sister
Caroline came over to live with him. In time, turning
his attention to telescopes and astronomy, and gaining
the favour of George III, he became the greatest
practical astronomer of his age. For more than forty
years did the brother pursue his investigations at
Slough, near Windsor, Caroline assisting him. It is
stated that when he became for ten or twelve hours at
a time absorbed in study, Miss Herschel sometimes
found it necessary to put food into his mouth, as
otherwise he would have neglected even that simplest
of nature's needs. The support of the pair was assured
by a pension from the king, who did himself honour by
conferring on William Herschel the honour of
knighthood.

In 1798 Caroline Herschel published a Catalogue
of Stars, at the expense of the Royal Society,
which has ever since been highly valued by practical
astronomers. After a noble career, Sir William died in
1822; and his sister then went to spend the rest of
her days at Hanover. She afterwards prepared a
Catalogue of Nebulae and Star-Clusters, observed
by her brother.

It was an event worth remembering, when, on the 8th
of February 1828, the Astronomical Society's gold
medal was awarded to Caroline Herschel. Her nephew
John, now the eminent Sir J. F. W. Herschel, was
President of the Society, and shrank from seeming to
bestow honour on his own family; but the Council
worthily took the matter in hand. Sir
James South, in an address
on the occasion, after adverting to the labours of Sir
William Herschel, said: 'Who participated in his
toils? Who braved with him the inclemency of the
weather? Who shared his privations? A female! Who was
she? His sister. Miss Herschel it was who, by night,
acted as his amanuensis.

She it was whose pen conveyed to paper his
observations as they issued from his lips; she it was
who noted the right ascensions and polar distances of
the objects observed; she it was who, having passed
the night near the instruments, took the rough
manuscripts to her cottage at the dawn of day, and
produced a fine copy of the night's work on the
subsequent morning; she it was who planned the labour
of each succeeding night; she it was who reduced every
observation and made every calculation; she it was who
arranged everything in systematic order; and she it
was who helped him to obtain an imperishable name. But
her claims to our gratitude end not here. As an
original observer, she demands, and I am sure has, our
most unfeigned thanks. Occasionally, her immediate
attention during the observations could be dispensed
with. Did she pass the night in repose ? No such
thing. Wherever her illustrious brother was, there you
were sure to find her also.' As one remarkable fact in
her career, she discovered seven comets, by means of'
a telescope which her brother made expressly for her
use.

It was not until the extraordinary age of
ninety-seven that this admirable woman closed her
career, Her intellect was clear to the last; and
princes and philosophers alike strove to do her honour.
The foregoing portrait—in which, notwithstanding age
and decay, we see the lineaments of intellect and
force of character,—is from a sketch in the possession
of Sir John Herschel.

On this day in the year 1683, King Charles II in
council at Whitehall, issued orders for the future
regulation of the ceremony of Touching for the King's
Evil. It was stated that 'his Majesty, in no less
measure than his royal predecessors, having had good
success therein, and in his most gracious and pious
disposition being as ready as any king or queen of
this realm ever was, in any thing to relieve the
necessities and distresses of his good subjects,' it
had become necessary to appoint fit times for the 'Publick
Healings;' which therefore were fixed to be from
All-Hallow-tide till a week before Christmas, and
after Christmas until the first week of March, and
then cease till Passion week; the winter being to be
preferred for the avoidance of contagion. Each person
was to come with a recommendation from the minister or
churchwardens of his parish, and these individuals
were enjoined to examine carefully into the cases
before granting such certificates, and in particular
to make sure that the applicant had not been touched
for the evil before.

Scrofula, which is the scientific name of the
disease popularly called the King's evil, has been
described as 'indolent glandular tumours, frequently
in the neck, suppurating slowly and imperfectly, and
healing with difficulty.' (Good's Study of
Medicine.) This is the kind of disease most likely
to be acted upon by the mind in a state of excitement.
The tumours maybe stimulated, and the suppuration
quickened and increased, which is the ordinary process
of cure. Whether the result be produced through the
agency of the nerves, or by an additional flow of
blood to the part affected, or by both, has not
perhaps been clearly ascertained: but that cures in
such cases are effected by some such natural means, is
generally admitted by medical practitioners; and it is
quite credible that, out of the hundreds of persons
said to have been cured of king's evil by the royal
touch, many have been restored to health by the mind
under excitement operating on the body. In all such
cases, however, the probability of cure may be
considered as in proportion to the degree of credulity
in the person operated upon, and as likely to be
greatest where the feeling of reverence or veneration
for the operator is strongest. As society becomes
instructed in the causes and nature of diseases, and
the methods of cure established by medical experience,
the belief in amulets, charms, and the royal touch
passes away from the human mind, together with all the
other superstitions which were so abundant in ages of
ignorance, and of which only a few remains still
linger among the most uninstructed classes of society.

The practice of touching for the king's evil had
its origin in England from Edward the Confessor,
according to the testimony of William of Malmesbury,
who lived about one hundred years after that monarch.
Mr. Giles's translation of this portion of the
Chronicle of the Kings of England is as follows:

'But now to speak of his miracles. A young
woman had married a husband of her own age, but
having no issue by the union, the humours collecting
abundantly about her neck, she had contracted a sore
disorder, the glands swelling in a dreadful manner.
Admonished in a dream to have the part affected
washed by the king, she entered the palace, and the
king himself fulfilled this labour of love by
rubbing the woman's neck with his hands dipped in
water. Joyous health followed his healing hand; the
lurid skin opened, so that worms flowed out with the
purulent matter, and the tumour subsided; but as the
orifice of the ulcer was large and unsightly, he
commanded her to be supported at the royal expense
till she should be perfectly cured. However, before
a week was expired, a fair new skin returned, and
hid the ulcers so completely that nothing of the
original wound could be discovered.

Those who knew him more intimately affirm that he
often cured this complaint in Normandy; whence
appears how false is their notion who in our times
assert that the cure of this disease does not
proceed from personal sanctity, but from hereditary
virtue in the royal line.'

Shakespeare describes the practice of the holy king
in his tragedy of Macbeth, 'the gracious Duncan'
having been contemporary with Edward the Confessor:

'Macduff.-What's the disease he means?
Malcolm.— 'Tis called the evil;
A most miraculous work in this good king;
Which often, since my here-remain in England,
I've seen him do. How he solicits heaven
Himself best knows; but strangely-visited
people,
All swoln and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye,
The mere despair of surgery, he cures; H
anging a golden stamp about their necks,
Put on with holy prayers: and 'tis spoken,
To the succeeding royalty he leaves
The healing benediction. With this strange
virtue
He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy;
And sundry blessings hang about his throne,
That speak him full of grace.'

Holinshed's Chronicle is Shakespeare's
authority, but by referring to the passage it will be
seen that the poet has mixed up in his description the
practice of his own times.

Referring to Edward the Confessor, Holinshed writes
as follows:

As it has been thought, he was inspired with the
gift of prophecy, and also to have the gift of
healing infirmities and diseases. He used to help
those that were vexed with the disease commonly
called the king's evil, and left that virtue, as it
were, a portion of inheritance to his successors,
the kings of this realm.'

Laurentius, first physician to Henry IV of France,
in his work DeMirabili Strumas Samando, Paris,
1609, derives the practice of touching for the king's
evil from Clovis, A.D. 481, and says that Louis I,
A.D. 814, also performed the ceremony with success.
Philip de Commines says (Danett's transl., ed.
1614, p. 203), speaking of Louis XI when he was ill at
Forges, near Chinon, in 1480:

'He had not much to say, for he was shriven not
long before, because the kings of Fraunce use
alwaies to confesse themselves when they touch those
that be sick of the king's evill, which he never
failed to do once a weeke.'

There is no mention of the first four English kings
of the Norman race having ever attempted to cure the
king's evil by touching; but that Henry II performed
cures is attested by Peter of Blois, who was his
chaplain. John of Gaddesden, who was physician to
Edward II and flourished about 1320 as a distinguished
writer on medicine, treats of scrofula, and, after
describing the methods of treatment, recommends, in
the event of failure, that the patient should repair
to the court in order to be touched by the king.
Bradwardine, Archbishop of Canterbury, who lived in
the reigns of Edward III and Richard II, testifies as
to the antiquity of the practice, and its continuance
in the time when he lived. Sir John Fortes cue, Lord
Chief Justice of the Court of King's Bench in the time
of Henry IV, and afterwards Chancellor to Henry VI, in
his Defence of the Title of the House of Lancaster,
written just after Henry IV's accession to the crown,
and now among the Cotton manuscripts in the
British Museum, represents the practice as having
belonged to the kings of England from time immemorial.
Henry VII was the first English sovereign who
established a particular ceremony to be used on the
occasion of touching, and introduced the practice of
presenting a small piece of gold.

We have little trace of the custom under the eighth
Harry; but Cavendish, relating what took place at the
court of Francis I of France, when
Cardinal Wolsey was
there on an embassy in 1527, has the following
passage:

'And at his [the king's] coming into the
bishop's palace [at Amiens], where he intended to
dine with the Lord Cardinal, there sat within a
cloister about 200 persons diseased with the king's
evil, upon their knees. And the king, or ever he
went to dinner, provised every of them with rubbing
and blessing them with his bare hands, being
bareheaded all the while; after whom followed his
almoner, distributing of money unto the diseased.
And that done, he said certain prayers over them,
and then washed his hands, and came up into his
chamber to dinner, where my lord dined with
him.'—Life of Wolsey, ed. 1825, i. 124.

In the reign of Queen Elizabeth,
William Tookes published
a book on the subject of the cures effected by the
royal torch—Charisma; sive Donwm Sanationis. He
is a witness as to facts which occurred in his own
time. He states that many persons from all parts of
England, of all ranks and degrees, were, to his own
knowledge, cured by the touch of the Queen; that he
conversed with many of them both before and after
their departure from the court; observed an incredible
ardour and confidence in them that the touch would
cure them, and understood that they actually were
cured. Some of them he met a considerable time
afterwards, and upon inquiry found that they had been
perfectly free from the disease from the time of their
being touched, mentioning the names and places of
abode of several of the persons cured. William Clowes,
surgeon to Queen Elizabeth, denominates scrofula 'the
King's or the Queen's Evil, a disease repugnant to
nature; which grievous malady is known to be
miraculously cured and healed by the sacred hands of
the Queen's most royal majesty, even by Divine
inspiration and wonderful work and power of God, above
man's will, art, and expectation.'

In the State Paper Office there are preserved no
less than eleven proclamations issued in the reign of
Charles I respecting the touching for the king's evil.
They relate mostly to the periods when the people
might repair to the court to have the ceremony
performed. In the troubled times of Charles's reign he
had not always gold to bestow; for which reason,
observes Mr. Wiseman, he substituted silver, and often
touched without giving anything.

Mr. Wiseman, who was principal surgeon to Charles
II after the Restoration, says:

'I myself have been a frequent eye-witness of
many hundreds of cures performed by his Majesty's
touch alone, without any assistance from chirurgery:
The number of cases seems to have increased greatly
after the Restoration, as many as 600 at a time
having been touched, the days appointed for it being
sometimes thrice a week. The operation was often
performed at Whitehall on Sundays. Indeed, the
practice was at its height in the reign of Charles
II. In the first four years after his restoration he
touched nearly 24,000 persons.'

Pepys, in his Diary, under the date June 23, 1660,
says:

'To my lord's lodgings, where Tom Guy came to me,
and then staid to see the king touch for the king's
evil. But he did not come at all, it rained so; and
the poor people were forced to stand all the morning
in the rain in the garden. Afterwards he touched
them in the Banquetting House.'

And again, under the date of April 10, 1661, Pepys
says:

'Met my lord the duke, and, after a little talk
with him, I went to the Banquet House, and there saw
the king heal,—the first time that ever I saw him do
it,—which he did with great gravity; and it seemed
to me to be an ugly office and a simple one.'

One of Charles II's proclamations, dated January 9,
1683, has been given above. Evelyn, in his Diary,
March 28, 1684, says: 'There was so great a concourse
of people with their children to be touched for the
evil, that six or seven were crushed to death by
pressing at the chirurgeon's door for tickets.' The
London Gazette, October 7, 1686, contains an
advertisement stating that his Majesty would heal
weekly on Fridays, and commanding the attendance of
the king's physicians and surgeons at the Mews, on
Thursdays in the afternoon, to examine cases and
deliver tickets.

But Charles II and Louis XIV had for a few years a
rival in the gift of curing the king's evil by
touching. Mr. Greatrakes, an Irish gentleman of the
county of Waterford, began, about 1662, to have a
strange persuasion in his mind that the faculty of
curing the king's evil was bestowed upon him, and upon
trial found his touching succeed. He next ventured
upon agues, and in time attempted other diseases. In
January 1666, the Earl of Orrery invited him to
England to attempt the cure of Lady Conway of a
headache; he did not succeed; but during his residence
of three or four weeks at Ragley, Lord Conway's seat
in Warwickshire, cured, as he states, many persons,
while others received benefit. From Bagley he
removed to Worcester, where his success was so great
that he was invited to London, where he resided many
months in Lincoln's Inn Fields, and performed many
cures.—A brief Account of Mr. Valentine Greatrakes,
and divers of the strange cures by him performed;
written by himself in a letter addressed to the Hon.
Robert Boyle, Esq., whereunto are annexed the
testimonials of several eminent and worthy persons of
the chief matters of fact there related. London, 1666.

The ceremony of touching was continued by James II.
In the Diary of Bishop Cartwright, published by the
Camden Society, at the date of August 27, 1687, we
read: 'I was at his Majesty's levee; from whence, at
nine o'clock, I attended him into the closet, where he
healed 350 persons.' James touched for the evil while
at the French court. Voltaire alludes to it in his
Siecle de Louis XIV. William III. never performed the
ceremony.

Queen Anne seems to have been the last of the
English sovereigns who actually performed the ceremony
of touching. Dr. Dicken, her Majesty's sergeant
surgeon, examined all the persons who were brought to
her, and bore witness to the certainty of some of the
cures. Dr. Johnson, in Lent, 1712, was amongst the
persons touched by the Queen.

For this purpose he was taken to London, by the
advice of the celebrated Sir John
Floyer, then a physician in Lichfield. Being asked
if he remembered Queen Anne, Johnson said he had ' a
confused, but somehow a sort of solemn recollection of
a lady in diamonds, and a long black hood.' Johnson
was but thirty months old when he was touched.

Carte, the historian, appears to have been not only
a believer in the efficacy of the royal touch, but in
its transmission in the hereditary royal line; and to
prove that the virtue of the touch was not owing to
the consecrated oil used at the coronation, as some
thought, he relates an instance within his own
knowledge of a person who had been cured by the
Pretender. (History of England, vol. i. p. 357,
note.) 'A young man named Lovel, who resided at
Bristol, was afflicted with scrofulous tumours on his
neck and breast, and having received no benefit from
the remedies applied, resolved to go to the Continent
and be touched. He reached Paris at the end of August
1716, and went thence to the place where he was
touched by the lineal descendant of a race of kings
who had not at that time been anointed. He touched the
man, and invested him with a narrow riband, to which a
small piece of silver was pendant, according to the
office appointed by the Church for that solemnity. The
humours dispersed insensibly, the sores healed up, and
he recovered strength daily till he arrived in perfect
health at Bristol at the beginning of January
following. There I saw him without any remains of his
complaint.' It did not occur to the learned historian
that these facts might all be true, as probably they
were, and yet might form no proof that an unanointed
but hereditarily rightful king had cured the evil. The
note had a sad effect for him, in causing much
patron-age to be withdrawn from his book.

A form of prayer to be used at the ceremony of
touching for the king's evil was originally printed on
a separate sheet, but was introduced into the Book of
Common Prayer as early as 1684. It appears in the
editions of 1707 and 1709. It was altered in the folio
edition printed at Oxford in 1715 by Baskett.

Previous to the time of Charles II, no particular
coin appears to have been executed for the purpose of
being given at the touching. In the reign of Queen
Elizabeth, the small gold coin called an angel seems
to have been used. The touch-pieces of Charles II are
not uncommon, and specimens belonging to his reign and
of the reigns of James II and of Queen Anne may be
seen in the British Museum. They have figures of St.
Michael and the dragon on one side, and a ship on the
other. A piece in the British Museum has on one side a
hand descending from a cloud towards four heads, with
' He touched them ' round the margin, and on the other
side a rose and thistle, with. ' And they were
healed.'

We have engraved a gold touch-piece of Charles II,
obverse and reverse; and the identical touch-piece,
obverse and reverse, given by Queen Anne to Dr.
Johnson, preserved in the British Museum.

On this day, in the year 1816,
Davy's safety lamp,
for the first time, shed its beams in the dark
recesses of a coal-pit. The Rev. John Hodgson, rector
of Jarrow, near Newcastle,—a man of high
accomplishment, subsequently known for his laborious
History of Northumberland,—had on the previous day
received from Sir Humphry Davy, two of the lamps which
have ever since been known by the name of the great
philosopher. Davy, although he felt well-grounded
reliance in the scientific correctness of his new
lamp, had never descended a coal-pit to make the
trial: and Hodgson now determined to do this for him.
Coal mines are wont to give forth streams of gas,
which, when mixed in certain proportions with
atmospheric air, ignite by con-tact with an open
flame, producing explosion, and scattering death and
destruction around.

Till this time, miners were in the habit, when
working in foul air, of lighting themselves by a steel
mill—a disk of steel kept revolving in contact with a
piece of flint: such an arrangement being safe, though
certainly calculated to afford very little light. Davy
found the means, by enclosing the flame in a kind of
lantern of wire-gauze, of giving out light without
inviting explosion. Armed with one of these lamps, Mr.
Hodgson descended Hebburn pit, walked about in a
terrible atmosphere of firedamp, or explosive gas,
held his lamp high and low, and saw it become full of
blazing gas without producing any explosion. He
approached gradually a miner working by the spark
light of a steel mill; a man who had not the slightest
knowledge that such a wonder as the new lamp was in
existence. No notice had been given to the man of what
was about to take place. He was alone in an atmosphere
of great danger, 'in the midst of life or death,' when
he saw a light approaching, apparently a candle
burning openly, the effect of which he knew would be
instant destruction to him and its bearer. His command
was instantly, 'Put out the light!' The light came
nearer and nearer. No regard was paid to his cries,
which then became wild, mingled with imprecations
against the comrade (for such he took Hodgson to be)
who was tempting death in so rash and certain a way.
Still, not one word was said in reply; the light
continued to approach, and then oaths were turned into
prayers that his request might be granted; until there
stood before him, silently exulting in his success, a
grave and thoughtful man, a man whom he well knew and
respected, holding up in his sight, with a gentle
smile, the triumph of science, the future safe-guard
of the pitmen. The clergyman afterwards acknowledged
that he had done wrong in subjecting this poor fellow
to so terrible a trial.

Great and frequent as had been the calamities
arising from firedamp, it was not till after an
unusually destructive explosion in 1812, that any
concentrated effort was made to obtain from science
the means of neutralising it. In August 1815, Sir
Humphry Davy was travelling through Northumberland. In
consequence of his notable discoveries in chemistry,
Dr. Gray, rector of Bishopwearmouth, begged him to
make a short sojourn in Newcastle, and see whether he
could suggest anything to cure the great danger of the
mines. Mr. Hodgson and Mr. Buddle, the latter an
eminent colliery engineer, explained all the facts to
Davy, and set his acute mind thinking. He came to
London, and made a series of experiments. He found
that flame will not pass through minute tubes; he
considered that a sheet of wire-gauze may be regarded
as a series of little tubes placed side by side; and
he formed a plan for encircling the flame of a lamp
with a cylinder of such gauze. Inflammable air can get
through the meshes to reach the flame, but it cannot
emerge again in the form of flame, to ignite the rest
of the air in the mine. He sent to Mr. Hodgson for a
bottle of fire-damp: and with this he justified the
results to which his reasoning had led him.

At length, at the end of October, Davy wrote to
Hodgson, telling all that he had done and reasoned
upon, and that he intended to have a rough 'safety
lamp' made. This letter was made public at a meeting
in Newcastle on the 3rd of November; and soon
afterwards Davy read to the Royal Society, and
published in the Philosophical Trans-actions, those
researches in flames which have contributed so much to
his reputation. There can be no question that his
invention of the safety lamp was due to his love of
science and his wish to do good. He made the best lamp
he could, and sent it to Mr. Hodgson, and read with
intense interest that gentleman's account of the
eventful experiences of the 9th of January. It is
pleasant to know that that identical lamp is
pre-served in the Museum of Practical Geology in
Jermyn Street. Mr. Buddle advised Sir Humphry to take
out a patent for his invention, which he was certain
would realise £5000 to £10,000 a year. But Davy would
have none of this; he did not want to be paid for
saving miners' lives. 'It might,' he replied,
'undoubtedly enable me to put four horses to my
carriage; but what could it avail me to have it said
that Sir Humphry drives his carriage and four?'

While the illustrious philosopher was thus
effecting his philanthropic design by a strictly
scientific course, a person then of little note, but
afterwards the equal of Davy in fame,—George
Stephenson, engine-wright at Killingworth Colliery,
near Newcastle,—was taxing his extra-ordinary genius
to effect a similar object by means more strictly
mechanical. In August 1815, he devised a safety lamp,
which was tried with success on the subsequent 21st of
October. Accompanied by his son Robert, then a boy,
and Mr. Nicholas Wood, a superintendent at
Killingworth, Stephenson that evening descended into
the mine. 'Advancing alone, with his yet untried lamp,
in the depths of those underground workings—calmly
venturing his own life in the determination to
discover a mode by which the lives of many might be
saved and death disarmed in these fatal caverns—he
presented an example of intrepid nerve and manly
courage, more noble even than that which, in the
excitement of battle and the impetuosity of a charge,
carries a man up to the cannon's mouth. Advancing to
the place of danger, and entering within the fouled
air, his lighted lamp in hand, Stephenson held it
firmly out, in the full current of the blower, and
within a few inches of its mouth. Thus exposed, the
flame of the lamp at first increased, and then
flickered and went out; but there was no explosion of
gas. . . Such was the result of the first experiment
with the first practical miner's safety lamp; and such
the daring resolution of its inventor in testing its
valuable qualities!'

Stephenson's first idea was that, if he could
establish a current within his lamp, by a chimney at
its top, the gas would not take fire at the top of the
chimney; he was gradually led to connect with this
idea, an arrangement by a number of small tubes for
admitting the air below, and a third lamp, so
constructed—being a very near approach to Davy's
plan—was tried in the Killingworth pit on the 30th of
November, where to this day lamps constructed on that
principle—and named the 'Geordy'—are in regular use.

No one can now doubt that both Davy and Stephenson
really invented the safety lamp, quite independently
of each other: both adopted the same principle, but
applied it differently. To this day some of the miners
prefer the 'Geordy;' others give their vote for the ' Davy; ' while others again approve of lamps of later construction, the result of a combination of improvements. In those days, however, the case was very different. A fierce lamp-war raged throughout 1816 and 1817. The
friends of each party accused the other of stealing fame.

Davy having the advantage of an established
reputation, nearly all the men of science sided with
him. They affected superb disdain for the new
claimant, George Stephenson, whose name they had never
before heard. Dr. Paris, in his Life of Davy, says:
'It will hereafter be scarcely believed that an
invention so eminently philosophic, and which could
never have been derived but from the sterling treasury
of science, should have been claimed on behalf of an
engine-wright of Killingworth, of the name of
Stephenson—a person not even professing a knowledge of
the elements of chemistry.' There were others, chiefly
men of the district, who de-fended the rights of the
ingenious engine-wright, whose modesty, however,
prevented him from ever taking up an offensive
position towards his illustrious rival.

January 9, 1800,Mr. Abernethy, the eccentric
surgeon, was married to Miss Ann Threlfall. 'One
circumstance on the occasion was very characteristic
of him; namely, his not allowing it to interrupt, even
for a day, his course of lectures at the hospital.
Many years after this, I met him coming into the
hospital one day, a little before two (the hour of
lecture), and seeing him rather smartly dressed, with
a white waistcoat, I said, "You are very gay today,
sir?" "Ay," said he; "one of the girls was married
this morning." "Indeed, sir," I said. "You should have
given yourself a holiday on such an occasion, and not
come down to the lecture." "Nay," returned he; "egad!
I came down to lecture the day I was married myself!"

On another occasion, I recollect his being sent for
to a case just before lecture. The ease was close in
the neighbourhood, and it being a question of time, he
hesitated a little; but being pressed to go, he
started off. He had, however, hardly passed the gates
of the hospital before the clock struck two, when, all
at once, he said: "No, I'll be — if I do! " and
returned to the lecture-room.'—Macilvaia's Memoirs
of Abernethy.